Alastor stepped out of the washroom, his damp hair falling loosely around his shoulders. He felt refreshed, the weariness of the past days cleansed from his body, if not his mind. His eyes scanned the quiet house, noting how the sunlight had shifted, casting longer shadows across the wooden floor.
He walked back to the small room where Grace had slept, glancing at the modest furnishings. The bed, neatly made, spoke of Grace's meticulous nature. His fingers brushed against the edge of the blanket as he moved toward the window. The city outside was calm, the occasional figure passing by, absorbed in their morning routines.
His attention shifted back to the room as he felt the faint hum of his binding spell flicker. He raised his hand, flexing his fingers experimentally. No magic flowed yet, but the restraint was weaker than before. A few more days, perhaps less, and he would be free.
Turning from the window, Alastor began to explore the house. It was quiet and unassuming, much like its owner. Each room seemed to hold fragments of Grace's life - a small bookshelf filled to the brim with books with subjects that were strange to him, a collection of pressed flowers framed on the wall, and a medium-sized chest tucked into a corner that piqued his curiosity.
Kneeling beside the chest, he ran his fingers over the smooth wood before lifting the lid. Inside were Grace's personal keepsakes. A rosary, a faded photograph of a younger Grace with an older man - perhaps her father - and a bundle of handwritten letters tied with a ribbon. Opening one of the letters, he decides to read them in his mind.
Dear Grace,
How have you been? It's been a while since we had seen each other. I hope that you are well. I am writing this letter to let you know that mother and I missed you dearly. I know you are busy with doing nun stuff. Hopefully, you manage to find some free time to visit us if you can.
Your lovely sister, Eliza.
"She has a sister huh? Wonder if she is as beautiful as Grace," He wandered to himself. Putting back the items to their place, he stands up to investigate the house once more.
Alastor straightened and took another look around the room. His keen eyes absorbed the details. Everything was arranged with care and with an air of practicality. Grace wasn't one for frivolity it seems. He smirked to himself, amused by the stark contrast between her disciplined life and the chaos and pleasure he often reveled in.
As he stepped into the hallway, his footsteps made little noise on the wooden floors. He passed by a narrow table holding a vase of fresh lilies and a small, carved figurine of a saint he couldn't identify. The faint scent of lavender lingered in the air, calming and strangely relaxing.
The next door led to what appeared to be a study room. Alastor paused at the threshold, his curiosity piqued. Shelves lined the walls, filled with an eclectic mix of books. Some were religious texts, others historical tomes, and a surprising number seemed to delve into subjects he wouldn't have expected from Grace - alchemy, folklore, and even the occult. However, another book caught his attention.
"Interesting," He murmured, running his finger along the spine of a weathered book titled A Life of Pleasure. He pulled it from the shelf and flipped it open. As Alastor reads it, the title of the book suddenly makes sense as the content is filled with scenes of pleasure between boy and girl, girl and girl, and much, much more.
Some of these scene was quite intense that even he, an incubus, a creature that thrives on pleasure, a little red in the face. It honestly gave him quiet a number of idea of positions he could use.
"Seems like little Gracie here is a bit frustrated with her nonexistent sex life," Alastor chuckled softly, closing the book and returning it to its place. This little bit of information definitely gives him some ideas on how to better corrupt Grace.
Walking back to the living room, he sat on the couch, draping one arm lazily over the backrest as he stared up at the ceiling. The house was definitely interesting. It bore the marks of someone who valued discipline and simplicity, yet the cracks in that facade, no matter how small, were evident.
Alastor smirked to himself, tapping his fingers rhythmically against the fabric of the couch. Grace was far from the saint she appeared to be. Beneath the surface lay a wealth of vulnerabilities, waiting to be teased out and exploited. He delighted in the thought, a spark of anticipation flickering in his eyes.
Closing his eyes, he imagined her, slowly shedding those clothes of her one by one, revealing her perfect body to him.
As the hours went by, he was pulled out of his imagination was interrupted by the faint creak of the front door opening. Grace, no doubt.
"Ah Mr. Alastor, you're still here," Grace's soft, steady voice filled the quiet house as she stepped inside. She carried a basket filled with fresh produce, the faint scent of herbs and earth trailing her. Her simple dress was slightly dusted with dirt.
Alastor straightened from his relaxed sprawl on the couch, his eyes locking onto her as a sly grin spread across his face. "Indeed I am, Sister Grace. Your humble abode is quite... charming. I took the liberty of exploring it a bit while you were away."
Grace set the basket on the kitchen counter, her movements deliberate and unhurried. "I see." Her tone held no accusation, only a calm acceptance that made her hard to rattle. "I trust you didn't touch anything you shouldn't have."
"Define shouldn't," Alastor replied smoothly, standing and walking toward her, his steps measured and predatory. "I found one of your books." He could see her face already reddening with shame. "A Life of Pleasure, was it? That book is certainly something."